


Tilt Shift

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [11]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Banter, Consensual Kink, Consequences, Court of Owls, Dark Comedy, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Drama, Enemies, Enemies to Friends, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Gotham City Police Department, Haly's Circus (DCU), Heroes to Villains, Humor, Interconnectedness, Intersex Character, Intrigue, Jerome Valeska Lives, Jewish Character, Knifeplay, Lies, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mystery, Neurodiversity, New Relationship, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Season/Series 05, Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Trans Character, Twins, Villains, Villains to Heroes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28121118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “You willnotcall for tickets!” Oswald shouted, finally rounding on Olga. “This family has an image to uphold, do you understand? A reputation.”“Reputation for being drama queens,” Olga said, rolling her eyes. “This is overreaction.”Edward stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb. It was impossible to say when he’d arrived, or how long he’d been watching, but he could sneak into damned near any situation unnoticed if it suited him.“What’s an overreaction?” Edward asked, his tone implying Oswald had better calm down.“Haly and his caravan of malingerers are back,” Oswald said. “Martín wants to go. Discuss.”[Starts where the previous story,Seeing Light, leaves off.  Knowledge of earlier stories in series helps; read fromDarkroomforward for best results.]
Relationships: 514A & Bruce Wayne, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Ecco & Jeremiah Valeska, Ecco & Selina Kyle & Ivy Pepper & Bridgit Pike, Ecco/Ivy Pepper (Gotham), Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Martin & Olga (Gotham), Olga & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Oswald Cobblepot & Edward Nygma & Olga, Valerie Vale & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne
Series: Playing for Keeps [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300913
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. Sore Spot

Whenever Five had imagined his eventual reunion with Bruce, it hadn’t even come close to the present circumstances. He’d always believed he’d end up back at Wayne Manor, or at the GCPD, or in Arkham, and Bruce would retain all his power and advantage.

However, Bruce wasn’t even the most fascinating feature of this situation. It was the cold-eyed, calculating man at his side. None of Jerome’s descriptions of his twin brother had taken into account the physical effects of Crane’s insanity gas, although Jerome had surely _known_.

Five had anticipated needing to monologue until his throat was raw, but Bruce had agreed to an alliance before the Talons had even brought out dinner. Five hadn’t even needed to attempt to be persuasive—just mysterious and vaguely threatening.

Jerome had so much to say to Jeremiah that nobody else was going to get a word in edgewise all night. Five couldn’t help noticing that Bruce had begun to shoot him nervous glances, as if begging him shut Jerome down.

“So…yeah, uh, I guess that about covers the second round of posthumous adventures had by yours truly,” Jerome concluded, sliding his untouched wine to Five. “I bet you didn’t think tellin’ those yahoos to dig me up would have lasting consequences.”

Five grabbed the glass and gulped it so that Bruce would stop silently appealing for help.

“They weren’t your best and brightest, assuming you had any fitting that description,” Jeremiah said disdainfully, eyeing the plate that one of the Talons had just set in front of him. He narrowed his eyes at Five, making a big show of waiting until Five had set the glass down again. “If I turn blue and keel over after a few bites, you’ll both be dead before your lackeys return.”

Five watched Jeremiah cut several slivers of Chicken Florentine and eat them without flinching.

“Y’know, Brucie,” Jerome said, “I’ve never seen him trust somebody like he trusts you. Speaks volumes. Taking it upon himself to be your taster?” He whistled. “Your temper must run short these days. Quick on the draw. I’m almost sorry we didn’t serve arsenic.”

“There’s no poison,” Five said, glaring at Jeremiah in annoyance. “I won’t do business like Kathryn did, not with those I need as allies.” He glanced meaningfully at Bruce, hoping to get his point across. “You haven’t asked to hear the remainder of my terms.”

Bruce pushed the creamed spinach around on his plate. “I won’t tell you not to trust who you’ve taken up with, but Jerome always has an agenda.”

“Nice try,” Jerome said, cutting his chicken into a perfect grid, which looked a lot like mockery aimed at Jeremiah. “There’s only _our_ agenda.”

Jeremiah set down his fork and looked to Five, ignoring Jerome. “How did this happen, by the way?” he asked, gesturing from Five to his brother.

Bruce sighed, finally deciding he was hungry. “They might as well ask us the same thing.”

“How you two happened?” Jerome cackled. “Nah, that’s easy. You’re the same kinda nerd.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the romance,” Jeremiah said, feigning a yawn. “ _That’s_ easy. Jerome’s a regular bleeding heart, don’t let him fool you.”

Five finished chewing the bite he’d just put in his mouth, irritated at the implied assumption.

“Did you mean the fucking?” he asked. “It’s contingent on the former. Mind your own business.”

Bruce coughed into his napkin, and Jeremiah suddenly looked sour. It made Five wonder what _their_ courtship against the backdrop of a burning city must have looked like. Those fires on the night of Jerome’s first rebirth had likely been tame in comparison.

Jerome leaned close, kissing behind Five’s ear. “You hit a sore spot, princess,” he whispered.

“You took what you could get,” Five said, connecting the dots as he looked from Jeremiah to Bruce, “because you thought that was all you were ever going to get, didn’t you? From each other, I mean.”

When Bruce finally raised his head again, he looked far more furious than Jeremiah did.

“What do you call hooking up with the only option in sight, and in only a few weeks’ time?”

“Hey, we both had options,” Jerome said. “Lots of ’em, at least before we ended up in Iceman’s menagerie.”

“I’m still here,” Fries reminded them from the far end of the table, nonetheless seeming to enjoy his meal. “For what it’s worth,” he said to Bruce, “I watched them hit it off. Seemed natural enough to me, although I’m not exactly a relationship expert.”

“Dr. Fries could have reported what he saw to Kathryn at any time,” Five said, “but didn’t.”

“You were saying something about terms?” Jeremiah asked, curtly changing the subject.

Five shrugged, looking to Bruce. “Don’t interfere if I decide to reinstate the Court of Owls.”

“Of course not,” Bruce replied smugly. “Jeremiah and I will fill my parents’ seats, after all.”

Five opened his mouth and closed it again, wondering why that possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“If anybody’s moral turn-about is worth discussing,” Jerome said, pointing to Bruce, “it’s yours.”

“Looks like the bosses aren’t hungry anymore,” Fries interjected, rising. “I’ll escort them,” he said. “Make sure there’s no trouble on the way out.”

“Of course,” Five said. Kathryn’s clip-ons were making his earlobes feel stretched, but he didn’t remove them until the Talons had seen their guests out. “I think I want real piercings,” he said, thinking aloud as he pinched spots at intervals up to the helix of his right ear. “Lots.”

“I’ve never done that to anyone before, but I know folks who could do it,” Jerome replied. “At least I _think_ I do.”

“I had co-workers at the Foxglove who worked side gigs in piercing and tattoo studios,” Five said. “I’ll ask them.”

“Probably for the best,” Jerome agreed, stretching where he sat. “I’d find a way to screw it up. You deserve a pro.”

“Sweet of you to offer,” Five said, reaching for him. “I thought they would be here longer. It’s not even that late.”

While the Talons began to clear away unfinished plates, Jerome got up and drew Five out of his seat with both hands. He didn’t stop until he’d hauled Five up the stairs to the master bedroom, which they’d only entered previously in order to find Five some jewelry.

They’d both needed entirely new formalwear, which had been easy enough to have delivered.

“Dinner was more fun than I thought it would be,” Five laughed, tugging on Jerome’s wrists. “What are you _doing_?”

“About time we moved into your old lady’s digs, don’t you think?” Jerome asked coyly. “Had it made up special.”

“The Talons actually listened to you?” Five asked, playfully shoving Jerome onto the immaculate king-size bed.

“Yup. S’all in the inflection, right?” Jerome challenged, pulling Five down against him.

“Mhmmm,” Five mumbled against Jerome’s lips. He wasn’t drunk, but several glasses of alcohol and relatively little food had left him tipsy.

Jerome, in spite of his perpetual sobriety, didn’t waste any time. He squirmed out from under Five, panting harshly after only a few minutes of kissing. He kicked his shoes over the far side of the bed and unfastened his bottom layers, hastily shimmying out of them.

Five took off his oxblood Docs, which he hadn’t bothered to lace beneath the voluminous floor-length gown. He had a faint idea of what Jerome was after, although they hadn’t yet tried it in the several days since they’d first shared a bed.

“C’mon, sweet pea,” Jerome said, giving himself a few impatient strokes. “Before I, uh—”

“Was it what I said at dinner?” Five asked breathlessly, rucking up his gown. His heart skipped a beat as Jerome rolled onto his side, turning his back. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to, um…”

“Does it look like I care?” Jerome asked, gesturing at the nightstand. “Had ’em leave that, too.”

Five glanced over his shoulder, shocked he hadn’t noticed the tube. He wouldn’t have recognized the brand if he hadn’t spent time working at the Foxglove. The clear gel was colder on his fingers than he’d expected, but lukewarm by the time he slicked some on himself.

Jerome glanced over his shoulder. He reached back and grasped Five’s hip, urging him on.

Five bit his lip, but he couldn’t think clearly pressed up against Jerome’s lower back. “But—”

“You’re not gonna hurt me enough for it to matter,” Jerome coaxed. “But if you do, _great_.”

“Okay,” Five panted. He awkwardly lined himself up, shocked at how easy the next part was.

Jerome tensed as Five slid into him, relaxing after a few breathless seconds. “That’s… _huh_.”

Five flushed hot, gasping as his gut seized with pleasure. It always started like this, swift to spark, threatening to wash over him too soon. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to just tremble there, pitched to the edge.

“Feels...” Jerome wasn’t moving, but he curled his hand around Five’s and pumped it on his cock, groaning. “So good, precious.”

“Yeah,” Five panted, grinding his hips against Jerome, too afraid he’d slip out if he tried thrusting. Jerome clenched tightly around him, and Five’s thoughts unraveled. “Can’t...get deep enough, I can’t...”

Jerome panted, sounding as undone as Five felt. “Doesn’t...doesn’t matter.” He choked on his next sentiment, as if ashamed. “Fill me up.”

“Fuck,” Five whispered, flexing his hand taut. He crushed Jerome’s cock up against Jerome’s belly, shakily rubbing his slick palm over Jerome’s skin. “M’gonna—“ he swallowed, understanding Jerome’s hesitation “—fuck you so good.”

“Yeah?” Jerome asked, a breathless laugh. It faded to a long, low sound as Five rolled his hips. “ _Five_ ,” he choked, spurting messily in Five’s hand.

“Jerome,” Five whimpered, finally losing control of himself. “Jerome— _fuck_!”

Jerome stroked Five’s arm, bracing it tight around his middle. “Gotcha, princess.”

Five pressed his cheek against Jerome’s shoulder, shuddering into him. He’d never let himself scream before, not even when he was alone—but the sensation was sharper than before, shattering, just shy of unbearable.

“ _Shhh_ , darlin’, hey,” Jerome soothed, stroking the back of Five’s uncontrollably shaking thigh. “You okay?”

Five shivered and felt the tension drain from him. He nodded, bonelessly clinging to Jerome.

“That was different for you,” Jerome said after a minute, his heartbeat slowing beneath Five’s sticky fingers. “Kinda like the second time you… _uh_. On that first night we…did stuff. How?”

Five licked his lips, mouthing at the damp hair of Jerome’s nape while he mulled it over. “It went deeper, I think. Sharper in my...” He took hold of Jerome’s hand and guided it to the hollow of his hip, clasping it there. “Wasn’t as fast. I felt it everywhere.”

“What did your medical records say again?” Jerome asked. “About...y’know. Genes and parts.”

“46,XX/46,XY has, in my case, led to an intersex variant previously called true hermaphroditism, which—” Five paused, realizing Jerome might appreciate an attempt at layman’s terms. “My genitalia looks and functions _mostly_ like what you’d call male. Not…quite like yours, though.”

“Babe, we’re gonna go over this however many times we gotta. Size does _not_ matter.”

Five rested his head on Jerome’s shoulder, hating that he needed to revert back to clinical parlance. “I have mixed gonadal tissues. Descended ovo-testes, according to the file. It mentions a partial vaginal canal that has no external opening. One of the surgical reports from my early teens, in Strange’s writing, says that they removed incomplete _internal_ reproductive organs. I guess that means I might’ve had an underdeveloped uterus.”

“That would explain some of these,” Jerome said, tracing a few of the faded scars on Five’s abdomen, looking as angry as Five had felt when he first saw Jerome’s coroner-inflicted scars. “Sounds to me like maybe...” He trailed off, hesitant, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing. “You got the best of both worlds. Or, uh, the worst. Forget I said that. Not everybody likes the thought of having one or the other set of junk, let alone a mishmash.”

Five shrugged and clung to him, feeling less shy. “I don’t care. What I have left works.”

“D’you think you could...I dunno, do that again?” Jerome asked, stroking Five’s arm.

“What, come? Right now?” Five asked, startled at how eagerly the thought made him twitch, pressed stickily against the small of Jerome’s back.

“Yup,” Jerome said, disentangling himself from Five’s embrace. He got off the bed and finished undressing, dropping his waistcoat, tie, and cufflinks on the floor. “Doubt I could, so this is all about you.”

Five sat up, wondering if he should take off his dress, garter belt, and stockings. The way Jerome was looking at him stopped those thoughts short. He flopped back against the mattress, legs dangling over the side, skirt bunched around his hips, propped on his elbows to watch.

Jerome shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall. He fell on his knees, inching forward until he could set his hands on Five’s thighs, stroking the sensitive insides with his thumbs. His eyes were dark with subdued shame, but there was also a tangle of adoration and curiosity.

“I wanna try…” Jerome faltered. “Fingering you.” He breathed out, as if relieved to admit it. “Yeah,” he went on. “Might not work like it’s supposed to if you don’t have a prostate, though.”

Five shifted his hips impatiently, cheeks burning with renewed interest. “So? You can’t hurt me. Do it.” He grabbed Jerome’s chin, tilting it up until their eyes met, understanding what Jerome needed. “ _Now_.”

Jerome bent down and sucked Five for a while first, until Five felt so tightly wound that he had to lie down. Jerome climbed onto the mattress beside him, kissing Five’s neck before rolling him to one side so he could unzip the back of Five’s dress. Next, he removed Five’s garter belt and stockings with a hint of oddly endearing bewilderment over how all the clips and fastenings worked.

Five was relieved he didn’t have to do any of the work to undress himself. Naked at last, he stretched out on his back while Jerome did exactly what he’d promised—maddeningly slow and careful about it, given that he’d decided being contrary was part of the game. Having several of Jerome’s fingers inside him didn’t feel like much more than pressure, at least until there was an abrupt spike of pleasure.

“What did you do?” Five gasped, opening his eyes in time to see Jerome’s apprehensive expression turn to mischief.

“Nothin’ much,” Jerome said with feigned innocence, dotting kisses along Five’s jawline. “Just...oh, let’s see, _this_.”

This time, the sensation was so intense that Five had no _idea_ how he was supposed to keep quiet, so he didn’t. 

Jerome withdrew his fingers, a relief given Five’s overstimulation. He just held Five and took everything from blunt fingernails raked down his back to a vicious bite to his collarbone. The latter made him tremble, although Five, coming down from the endorphin rush, knew he was sated.

“You’re bleeding,” Five said after a while, hazily running his fingers over the broken, bruised skin of Jerome’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Jerome sighed dreamily, which sounded so absurd coming from the likes of _him_ that Five burst out laughing.

“Seriously, though,” Five said, rushing to the bathroom. He found rubbing alcohol and some cotton pads that were designed for makeup removal, and then carried both back into the bedroom. “I don’t want to risk you getting an infection.”

“Shame we sent Iceman home,” Jerome said with mock concern while Five swabbed the patch of broken skin.

“It’s preventative, not a medical emergency,” Five said, rolling his eyes as he rose from the bed. He went over to Kathryn’s closet, rifling through hangers until he found the one with her ankle-length silk brocade dressing gown. He put it on, satisfied.

“Where ya off to, sweet pea?” Jerome asked, watching Five head for the door. “Was it really that bad?”

“Shut up,” Five sighed, offering Jerome a fond smile over his shoulder. “Want anything? I’m hungry.”

Jerome was already hanging half off the bed, rummaging in his clothes. “Heat up whatever’s left.”

Five crept downstairs to the kitchen, relieved to find it dark and silent. The Talons had placed both Five’s and Jerome’s unfinished plates in the huge refrigerator, but had disposed of Bruce’s and Jeremiah’s. Five microwaved one plate after the other, and then took them back upstairs.

Jerome lounged against the pillows, frowning at the phone they’d been sharing since Kathryn’s demise. He must have gone to the other bedroom for pajamas, because he was wearing the set Five liked best. He looked up when Five climbed onto the bed and set one of the plates in his lap.

“Yowch, hot stuff,” Jerome said, shifting the plate quickly onto the nightstand. He grabbed Five’s free hand, turning it over. “Any burns this time?”

“No,” Five protested peevishly, and then stopped to think about that. “I don’t know,” he amended, sheepish, offering both hands for inspection.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Jerome said, relieved. He kissed each of Five’s palms and released them. “Wanna hear something as wild as it is ironic?”

“Can’t be as ironic as our dinner conversation,” Five said, his mouth already full. “Did you find something online? I still don’t get memes.”

Jerome handed Five the phone, stabbing his fork into his chicken with faint disgust. “Turns out some of my old friends are coming to town.”

Five stared at the garishly colored digital flyer in disbelief, noting the location and dates. “I guess it _is_ that time of year. We should go.”

Jerome cast a sly sidelong glance at Five. He finished chewing the bite he’d taken, and then asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, precious?”

Five ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, staring at the stylized text. “I’m thinking we should kill whoever’s left that has hurt you. So, yes.”


	2. Punch Line

Jerome was used to being the first one awake, so it was novel to realize he’d been waking, slowly, to the feel of Five’s fingers combing through his hair. There was still product in it, and he couldn’t help wondering if Five would dislike how sticky it was to the touch.

“Good morning,” Five said, distracted. There was an intermittent _tap_ , _tap_ that indicated he was scrolling on the phone screen with his free hand.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Jerome sighed, rolling over so he could bury his face against whatever part of Five was closest, which turned out to be his hip. Five's skin always smelled nice, like the fancy soap in the walk-in shower. “There’s...stuff,” he mumbled. “Hair. Might not wanna...”

“You’ve made worse messes of me than this,” Five said, amused. He redoubled his efforts, scratching Jerome’s scalp. “Sleep okay?”

“Only with you, princess,” Jerome said, worshipfully nuzzling Five’s belly. It didn’t seem possible to tickle Five, which was unfair given how ticklish Jerome was, and how often Five had begun to exploit that fact already. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“I realized something,” Five said, “and I wanted to see if my assumption was correct.” He nudged the back of Jerome’s head, making him look at the phone. “Aside from Dr. Fries, Bruce, and your brother, nobody else knows we’re alive. There’s all this press from when Commissioner Gordon let you fall off that building, and plenty about your brother burying you. Right after that, there’s nothing for the duration the city was cut off from the mainland. Media coverage picked up again about two and a half years ago, after reunification. There’s a _lot_ about your brother and Bruce.”

“They did more damage to Gotham between the two of ’em than I ever managed with any of my miscellaneous cronies,” Jerome said, impressed, “and I had a ton of those. Also, Jimbo wasn’t commissioner back then, just captain. I guess everyone’s forgiven _his_ sins, too.”

“Anyway,” Five said, “we’re going to cause a stir as soon as we make our first public appearance. We need to figure out when we should do that. We need to figure out _how_.” He glanced at Jerome, disgruntled. “What’s left of the Court, if I summon them, won’t be happy about Kathryn’s death. They might turn on us. Two Talons, Dr. Fries, and our, uh, relatives...don’t make an army.”

“Nah, but Brucie’s money and clout can keep those clowns in line,” Jerome replied, sitting up so he could rube Five’s shoulders reassuringly.

Five tilted his head at Jerome, as if performing some complex calculation in his head. “Clowns is what I was thinking we might need, though.”

Jerome had to ponder that for a few seconds before catching Five’s drift. “You heard my bro. He killed the ones he inherited after I croaked.”

Five brought another browser window to the foreground. “You might want to look at this _Gotham Gazette_ editorial. It’s from a over a month ago. Who is Valerie Vale? Kathryn never mentioned her.”

“Journalist,” Jerome said, taking the phone, skimming the text. “Captain Obvious—excuse me, _Commissioner_ Obvious—dated her before he got together with that forensics lady I woke up to the first time.”

“Dr. Leslie Thompkins?” Five asked. “Kathryn was updating me on who’s who in Gotham so I would be ready for...whenever she was going to reveal me, I guess, or for whenever she meant to use me. I know Dr. Thompkins runs a hospital in the Narrows. She’s with Alfred now.”

Jerome had to stop reading in order to process that information. “Alfred as in Brucie’s overbearing nanny?”

Five smirked and nodded. “Bruce’s former butler. He was kind to me, but that’s an accurate description.”

“The Crazypocalypse musta been way tougher than I thought,” Jerome said, returning to the column. “Looks like J _did_ drive everybody mad, and they stayed that way. Really gotta hand it to him. Wait, _former_?”

“They fell out when Bruce took up with Jeremiah, or at least that’s what Kathryn told me.” Five pointed a couple sentences down. “There.”

“What a homewrecker,” Jerome said. “Comes by it honestly, though. I’m glad you’ll never meet Mom.” He followed Five’s fingertip. “ _Public speculation has begun to address the notion that Mr. Valeska’s opinion of his late twin, whose final resting place is in Stoker, has changed. Otherwise, why not let that specter rest?_ Yeesh, she wrote that ’cause they funded some public works? I bet fixin’ up Stoker was for show.”

“If it was, they took the ruse pretty far,” Five said, closing that window only to open another. “Vale wrote this article, too, and took the photos.”

“This says they exhumed my body and cremated it that same day,” Jerome muttered. “We both know there was nothin’ in that casket, because you and I were ice cubes the whole time the city was cut off. Looks like...man, I dunno what.”

“Kathryn said they must’ve done that to save face,” Five replied. “I didn’t see this coverage, though. Vale did a lot of stories on the Waynes this year. It looks like she was laid off shortly after that most recent story. It makes me wonder what she might know...or, if not know, at least suspect. With all of these variables in play, I still think it would be wise for us to have backup.”

“Precious, if you want a buncha muscle for when we storm Haly’s, that’s not necessary,” Jerome said, admiring Five’s wild, sleep-mussed hair as he smoothed it back. “Better if we sneak in, do the job, and get outta there before they know what hit ’em.”

Five leaned sideways, resting his forehead against Jerome’s temple. “I thought you’d want that as our grand re-entrance into public life, is all.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Jerome said, turning his head so he could peck Five’s cheek. “Nah. I’d rather watch Gotham’s crème de la crème lose their collective shit the first time you call a meeting. D’you think they’d recognize me in one of those masks?”

Five grinned, pressing his lips against Jerome’s. “We should still investigate how much of your cult is left, though. You saw what else Vale wrote. Until the Waynes dug up your casket, people continued to leave offerings and hang around your headstone.”

Jerome leaned into the kiss. “The _Waynes_. Did he really give up a name as infamous as ours for one as bland as Brucie’s?”

“These articles say so,” Five said, shrugging. “Jeremiah did call Bruce his husband last night, right when they got here.”

“He’ll remind anyone who’ll listen till kingdom come,” Jerome retorted, rolling his eyes. He sank under the covers, pulling Five with him. “Lemme think. I heard about this dive in the Narrows that had a Maniax tribute schtick goin’ after Galavan jammed a knife in my neck on live TV. Must’ve been a club, but what the hell kind of club in the Narrows has a name like Celestial Garden?”

Five let his head fall forward so his hair curtained their faces. “That’s only a couple streets over from the Foxglove. They went brick and mortar a few years ago and needed permanent staff. Mistress Lucy hired me as a bodyguard. She let us all dress however we wanted. I wasn’t the only—” he chewed his lip “—I was in the process of learning vocabulary for it when I got really sick, just before the city got cut off, and Kathryn found me and had Doctor Fries put me in cryo. Genderfluid might be the word, or...whatever. I wasn’t the only one who worked there that identified as queer. Anyway, Mistress Lucy, the owner, she was always referring to Jeri at Celestial Garden as her competition. I’m not sure it was ever a brothel like the Foxglove. It was definitely a music venue and gay bar. I never spoke to Jeri, but I knew her to see her.”

“Guess I understand why you’d call a gay bar that,” Jerome said, winking at Five. “I might not have gotten it if you hadn’t spent the last few weeks showing me a bunch of compelling reasons why.” He kissed Five deeply. “What’s our next move, sweet pea?”

“Breakfast, maybe,” Five sighed, nuzzling Jerome’s neck. “Or just more of this, if you want.”

“I appreciate both, but I meant more in the strategy sense,” Jerome clarified, mapping the length of Five’s scarred spine. “Circus or Narrows?”

“We need to find Jeri,” Five said, contently letting his weight go slack on top of Jerome. “Sneaking across town in disguise is our best bet.”

“Disguise,” echoed Jerome, dubiously. “We’re gonna have to hit up YouTube so I can show you why that hasn’t historically worked out well for me.”

“I’ll take your word for it that the magician persona was bad,” Five replied. “I don’t want to watch someone kill you.” He traced the faded knife scar on Jerome’s neck. “I was thinking more just...street clothes. Jeans, tees, hoodies. Stuff you hate.”

“I used to wear street clothes,” Jerome protested. “Style-wise, the sweaters were a poor life choice, but that caravan was cold for half the year.”

“You won’t be cold anymore, not if I can help it,” Five murmured. “We don’t have to go anywhere today.”

“I sure hope not,” Jerome said, holding Five close. “We need to raid the wardrobes at Wayne Manor first.”

Five laughed. “I have other clothes here, ones you haven’t seen. I’ll contact Bruce and ask him to deliver some of Jeremiah’s informal stuff to us.”

“If you think that weirdo does informal, I’ve got bad news for you,” Jerome said. “They’ll have to go shopping.”

“Good,” Five replied. “I’ll enjoy knowing they had to buy it. I know money means nothing to Bruce, but still.”

Breakfast in pajamas with Five reminded Jerome of breakfast at the Galavan penthouse with the Maniax, but without the pressure to perform a certain level of propriety. Even brunch at the Van Dahl Estate with the Horribles had been arduous.

Jerome liked the fact the Talons didn’t so much as blink if he decided to pull Five into his lap and feed him fresh fruit. They’d started to push the envelope to see if there was any level of scandalous behavior to which the Talons _would_ react. The day before, an extended make-out session that ended in a carafe of maple syrup spilled on the Persian rug had only resulted in the Talons’ swift attention to clean-up.

Today, instead of starting something at the table, Five dragged Jerome to the shower. Five had used his mouth on Jerome a couple of times in the past several days, although Jerome had been too apprehensive for it to go much of anywhere. What they’d done the night before must have made all the difference to Jerome’s nerves. He came in Five’s mouth before he could even give coherent warning, and Five was smugly pleased.

Once they were finished, Jerome lazed on the bed, naked and drowsy, while Five sat beside him and made calls. The first, to Bruce, ended in the promise of clothing for Jerome as soon as possible. The next ones were for fact-finding, during which Five didn’t give his name. He learned Jeri’s club was open every night from 8pm until 2am, and he was able to find out which former co-workers worked which shifts at the Foxglove.

Five lay down next to him afterward, resting his head on Jerome’s chest. “What d’you want to do?”

Jerome combed his fingers through Five’s damp hair. “You, and then a nap. How’s that sound?”

“Pass on the first,” Five yawned, cuddling closer. “The shower wasn’t a favor you have to return.”

“Gotta make sure I’m treatin’ my baby right,” Jerome sighed, drifting off. “Just...say the word if...”

The next thing he knew, Five was looming over him, shaking him awake. “The stuff is here already.”

“What?” Jerome asked. He blinked at the dusky patches of sky he could see through the windows.

“Clothes,” Five said. “We slept for a few hours. If you wanted to, we could...go to the club, maybe?”

Jerome sat up, blinking some more. “Didn’t we just have breakfast and shower? I coulda sworn...”

“We didn’t wake up until almost noon. Everything we did after that took up, like, five or six hours.”

“Huh, time _does_ fly when you’re havin’ fun. You really wanna hit up the Narrows, precious?”

Five made a face. “Neither of us has been outside in a few years. _Literally_. I’m starting to come down with cabin fever.”

“We were frozen for like a year of that, but you have a point,” Jerome said. “Suddenly, I’m in the mood for fresh air.”

Five dressed without any reservations, which was no shock given that he seemed to _like_ the faded grey hoodie, nondescript black tee, and tight jeans. His messily upswept hair and red boots made the whole ensemble look intentionally careless.

Jerome, on the other hand, resented being reduced to an unconvincing caricature of his teenage self. Still, the fact that he was in a hoodie, too, meant they could both pass through the darkened streets without more than average scrutiny.

Five wrapped lightweight black cotton scarves around both of their heads, making sure they were covered from nose to chin before tugging up their hoods. He grabbed Jerome’s hand, and then dragged him out of the townhouse.

Walking to the nearest subway stop didn’t take long. Five remembered how to operate the token machines and read the maps, which was more than Jerome could say for himself. Nobody on the Stockton Line gave them a second glance.

Celestial Garden was in the building hunkered beneath the overpass less than a block from where they got off the train. Five did the talking, and finally had to bribe the bouncer when he got stubborn about seeing ID, which neither of them had.

The music inside was loud, although somehow less loud than the myriad conversations. Five grabbed Jerome’s hand and led him through the strobe-lit crowd. He strode up to the bar, which was tended by a dark-skinned individual with braids and a nose ring.

“We’re looking for Jeri,” Five said, seeming to hesitate for a second as he spoke. “Is she here?”

“Yeah,” said the bartender, pointing back an ill-lit hall toward some stairs. “Do I know you?”

“Probably not,” Five said hastily, slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Up a level?”

“Yeah,” said the bartender, squinting at him now. “You look like somebody I’ve seen.”

“Thanks,” Five said, dragging Jerome away from the bar before the bartender could reply.

Jerome struggled to keep up with Five’s pace on the stairs. “D’you think that she meant—”

“They,” Five answered breathlessly, “and, no, they didn’t mean Bruce. They meant me.”

“Where did they see you before?” Jerome demanded incredulously. “Do they know you?”

“Avi was still working at the Foxglove when I left,” Five said, coming to a halt before a sticker-covered dressing room door.

“Not an ex of yours I’m gonna have to kill, then?” Jerome asked, trying to pass it off as levity while Five knocked repeatedly.

“You know I don’t have any exes,” Five said, tugging down his scarf and sweeping his hood back, turning to face him when nobody answered the door. He loosened the scarf covering Jerome’s mouth and kissed him. “You don’t, either, right?”

“Nope,” Jerome said, kissing Five right back. “I won’t tell anybody if you won’t, precious.”

The door opened inward faster than either of them could react. “What the fuck are you kids…”

Both of them turned to face the woman with short, spiky bleached hair and white face-paint. Behind her glasses, her eyes went comically wide.

“Unless there’s three of each of you guys,” she said, pointing Jerome, and then Five, “you’ve got a whole lotta explaining to do. Get in here.”

“Three…?” Five echoed, closing the door behind them once they were inside the dressing room. 

“Well, sure,” Jeri said, stalking over to sit down on the stool, her back to the mirror. “There’s Bruce and the nut job he married, who’s definitely a Valeska whether I like it or not. Then, there’s Jerome, rest his soul, and this kid who worked for one of my competitors who everybody said _looked_ like Bruce. If you two aren’t one of the aforementioned sets, who the hell are you?”

“My soul didn’t exactly go anywhere,” Jerome volunteered. “ _Nobody_ likes my brother.”

“I dunno about that,” Jeri said, the corners of her lips twitching. “Bruce married him, didn’t he?”

“I used to work for Mistress Lucy,” Five said, “but nobody there ever told me I looked like—”

“That’s ’cause your temper had a reputation, kiddo,” Jeri interjected. “They didn’t wanna die.”

“I wouldn’t have killed a co-worker unless they did something to deserve it,” Five protested.

Jerome stared at Jeri, almost insulted that she was so calm. “Don’t you wanna know how—”

“This is Gotham. If you came back once, you can come back again. I don’t wanna know shit.”

“Fair enough,” Five said, folding his arms across his chest. “Is Jerome’s cult still based here?”

“I wouldn’t say it ever was,” Jeri replied. “All I did was give folks a place to remember him.”

“What about your Maniax-themed band?” Jerome asked. “I heard all kinda stories. Flattering.”

“Not all of ’em survived what your brother and the Wayne kid did,” Jeri said reluctantly. “I know you always claimed to be pro-anarchy, but I don’t think you woulda liked what they did to Gotham.”

“Do you know the Court of Owls?” Five asked. “I’m in charge of it. We need reinforcements.”

Jerome almost didn’t blame Jeri for her laughter, but Five’s feathers would need unruffling.

“Whatever’s goin’ on here,” Jeri said, wiping her watering eyes, “I wanna hear the punch line.”

“I wish it was a joke,” Jerome said, putting an arm around Five, “but princess doesn’t lie.”


	3. Team Effort

The first thing Jeri thought, once she’d gotten over the shock of who was standing in front of her, was how young they both looked. She figured she’d hidden it well enough to have the upper hand for at least a few more minutes, even though the two of them had just made an outrageous claim. The Court of Owls had been defunct since before the city got cut off from the mainland.

Jerome wasn’t exactly the skinny, scarless kid whose Arkham mug shots had first appeared right after Gordon nailed him for matricide. He wasn’t the spotlight-hungry, unpredictable ringleader of the Maniax anymore, either. Still, for somebody who’d been to hell and back twice, there was a fragility to him that Jeri couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe there was some stuff he forgot.

The other kid, now—she knew he’d spent some time working for Lucy, but she’d never known his name. He looked exactly like she remembered him, except for the fact that his hair was so long he could pull it back. Jerome calling him _princess_ made sense independent of the fact that they’d just been kissing outside her door, because he had often dressed the part and owned it.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” asked the kid, scowling at her. “We have no reason to—”

“Okay, so it’s not a joke,” Jeri said. “Yeah, I know about the fuckin’ Owls. They’re extinct.”

“Maybe,” mused Jerome, attempting a whimsical threat, “but only until Five says the word.”

“Sit your asses down,” Jeri said, waving to the battered sofa, and pulled up her stool. “You got some kinda connection to Kathryn Monroe? I heard she disappeared after the rage virus thing where that cuckoo ex-cop, Barnes, busted outta Arkham and went on a rampage.”

“Kathryn was my mother, sort of,” Five said. “She held us prisoner, though, so I killed her.”

Jeri couldn’t manage a straight face, so she looked at Jerome. “Was that your idea?”

Jerome opened his mouth to speak, but Five beat him to the punch. “No, but he helped.”

“It was a team effort,” Jerome added, “but my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

“I couldn’t have slit her throat without you serving as a distraction,” Five protested.

“My baby’s too modest,” Jerome told Jeri. “That blade was jammed to the hilt.”

Jeri rubbed her eyes behind her glasses. “How’s that make you in charge, exactly?”

“Kathryn left everything to me,” Five said curtly, “including command of the Court.”

Jeri sighed, scratching the makeup-induced itch on her nose. It was the first truly sobering thing either one of them had said, and she had the feeling Kathryn’s resources were the only reason Jerome had a third lease on life. Five’s stare was oddly intimidating.

“I’m gonna guess _sort of_ means Wayne DNA went into makin’ you, too?” Jeri asked.

When Five slumped petulantly back against the sofa, Jerome took point. “You guess right.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Five said to the ceiling. “We need to talk to you about—”

“Resurrecting Gotham’s shadiest cabal?” Jeri asked. “Do I really have to explain what a dumbass idea that is?” She glanced at Jerome, appalled. “Did your brain rot away this most recent time you were dead? Talk sense into him.”

Jerome slid an arm around Five, coaxing until Five relaxed and leaned against his shoulder.

“I’m gonna need sense talked into me, too, given what I came here to ask,” he cautioned.

Jeri narrowed her eyes, knowing full well she ought to kick them out. “And why’s that?”

Five glared. “Is what’s left of Jerome’s cult still based here? We might need the support.”

“That’s the tactful way of putting it,” Jerome agreed. “Princess might just need an army.”

The amount of sheer crazy on Jeri’s sofa was staggering, and normally she was all in favor. She felt sorry for what these kids must have been through, but couldn’t in good conscience encourage them to get themselves killed. Jerome had never exactly been a great fighter. Inasmuch as Five, as Lucy’s bodyguard, had enjoyed a deadly reputation, encouraging them wasn’t worth the risk.

“Long time ago,” Jeri said, scooting her stool back over to the mirror, turning her back to them, “the Wayne kid came here with a gun. He couldn’t have been more than, oh…thirteen, fourteen? Someone told him I knew where to find the guy who murdered his folks.”

Jerome kissed the top of Five’s head, muffling his snort of amusement. “Sounds like Brucie.”

Five scowled harder than ever, twisting his fingers in Jerome’s sleeve. “How is that relevant?”

“I shoulda told him to run along,” Jeri said, setting her glasses aside. “If I’d ever actually seen your boyfriend back when he was runnin’ around with the rest of Galavan’s puppets…” She shook her head. “Sounds like you two hit the jackpot, money and nice digs, so…run along.”

For the first time, Jerome looked angry. “From what I hear, you would’ve aided and abetted.”

Jeri sighed, wearily taking a wet-wipe to her face paint. “Never said I didn’t make mistakes.”

“We risked a lot, coming here,” Five said furiously. “Almost nobody else knows we’re alive.”

“Then you might wanna keep it that way,” said Jeri, shrugging. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“What if we don’t want it to stay that way?” Five challenged. “That’s why we need support.”

“You’ll be just fine if you lay off the Court bullshit,” Jeri said. “You will if you’re smart.”

Jerome’s reflection raised its hand. “What if I told you there’s another compelling reason?”

“If you mean the circus bein’ back in town, it ain’t compelling enough,” Jeri muttered sourly.

“Sounds like you have a history of encouraging juvenile delinquents to vengeance, though.”

“Anyway, we’re not juvenile delinquents,” Five pointed out. “We’re both legal adults.”

Exasperated, Jeri put her glasses back on. “Goin’ after Haly’s is only a little less stupid.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jerome said, flashing her a smile. “Does that mean—”

“She’s not going to help us,” Five said bitterly, getting to his feet. “We don’t need her.”

Jerome followed his lead, visibly stiff as he rose. “Like you said, it was only insurance.”

Jeri chewed the inside of her cheek, guilt welling up in her chest. She knew what it was like, being young, damaged, and needing to annihilate someone. She really did. Saving one grandparent’s life by killing the other had been worth going to juvie, although it had lost her any semblance of affection in her parents’ regard. That and the life of dubious legality and entrepreneurship she’d chosen afterward.

“Not so fast,” she said, snapping her fingers at them, pointing to the sofa. “I’ll answer your question. The last thing I need is you two showin’ your faces downstairs. There’d be a riot. Could be that I’m finally too old, but I’m not about gettin’ busted by the cops.”

“Does that mean Jerome still has fans here?” Five asked hopefully, returning to his former seat.

“Either that or she’s gonna tell us it’s complicated,” Jerome said, flopping down next to him.

“It _is_ ,” Jeri replied. “When did you get the impression anything around here’s easy?”

Five just stared at her for a few seconds, and then shrugged. “Are you going to explain?”

“You’ve gotta understand something,” Jeri said. “I never meant for this to be a place of worship, except…well, except maybe of the self. People come here to be more themselves than they can be anywhere else. That was the thing about Jerome and his merry band. It wasn’t about them as people. They were an idea, an _ideal_. With each successive broadcast, they sent a message. If I’d known at the time somebody else was at the wheel, I mighta thought twice about lettin’ this place become a sanctuary full of all that symbolism. Mea culpa.”

“Galavan was the idea guy,” Jerome scoffed. “Like you said, about the ideal—we elevated it.”

“Wasn’t it you the city responded to the most?” Five asked. “They made a martyr of you.”

“Both times, even,” Jeri agreed wistfully. “By the time Gordon chased you off that building, I’d dismantled most of the Maniax tribute trappings around here. It didn’t stop your devotees from comin’, though. Didn’t change the way I look one bit, ’cause I’ve always been like this. You can’t shame the goth out of a broad like me. This kinda aesthetic tends to be ride or die.”

Jerome rolled his eyes. “ _Pffft_. I wasn’t about to take credit for your fashion sense.”

Five tilted his head at Jeri. “Is it easy to recognize Jerome’s admirers? I heard it used to be.”

“Astute question, given the subject at hand,” said Jeri, grinning at him. “Sure, some dress like me. But just as many dress like you two are dressed right now, or like hipster rejects, or…I dunno, the fanciest failed businessfolks you can imagine. They come from all walks of life.”

“Note that the common denominators are failure and rejection,” Jerome said wryly. “Losers.”

“The implication is that we’re losers, too,” Five said sarcastically, and then glanced back at Jeri.

“I sure wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t one,” Jeri agreed. “There’s no shame in it. Know thyself.”

“That’s just it,” Five sighed. “For the longest time, I didn’t. Everyone tried to mold me into someone else.”

“With a face like that,” Jeri said ruefully, “it was bound to be a risk. That doesn’t make it right, but—”

"Are you seriously trying to justify what happened to me? To Jerome? Do you have any idea what Strange was doing at Indian Hill while he was in charge of Arkham? Actually, it went way, way back. He helped engineer Kathryn's pregnancy— _me_ —while he was working for the Waynes at Pinewood Farms. Even though I was lucky enough to escape with Fish Mooney and the others, he still ruined our lives."

"We don't have time to unpack all that, although I'm not surprised to hear Wayne money was behind it," Jeri said grimly. "Scratch the surface of any time-honored institution in Gotham, and chances are you'll find that's the case. I'm sorry they fucked with you, but they're also the reason J came back the first time. Sounds like Wayne money funneled through the Court is why he came back the second time, too."

Five made an aggravated noise and buried his face against Jerome’s shoulder, so Jerome spoke.

“Princess appreciates the history lesson, but he’s askin’ you to just get to the point already.”

“There’s no way you can tell by lookin’,” Jeri replied, deadpan. “You can’t just go around askin’ everyone downstairs, either. Truth is, _I_ don’t even know how many of ’em still carry a torch for you. I figure that’s between them and the selfhood they seek.”

“Would you at least keep your ear to the ground?” Five pleaded, his voice somewhat muffled.

“Nope,” Jeri said, taking a swig of stale water from her glass, “but I’ll put Avi right on that.”

“Bartenders hear everything,” Jerome said to Five, urging him to sit up straight. “How’s that?”

“Fine, actually,” Five replied, accepting the compromise. “I worked with Avi at the Foxglove. They did more odd jobs around the club than anyone else. There wasn’t a single regular patron whose drink order they didn’t know.”

“I guarantee you there wasn’t a private life they didn’t know, either,” Jeri said, wondering just how thoroughly she was going to regret this. “Gimme a few weeks. I’ll have a list. What purpose it serves is entirely up to you.”

Five got up and approached Jeri without warning, extending his hand as if inviting her to shake.

“Will you be on it?” he asked, the angle of his hand tilting suddenly, subtly palm-downward.

Jeri gave Jerome a questioning look, seeking approval, relieved when he gave a bemused nod.

“You’re way more personable than Bruce,” she said, kissing the back of Five’s hand. “I will.”


	4. Zombie Flick

For several days following dinner at the Court’s former stronghold, Bruce did his best to deflect Jeremiah’s concerns about Five and Jerome being not only alive, but involved with each other. Doing so in such a way that it wouldn’t _feel_ like he was deflecting was easier said than done.

Finally, exactly a week on from that evening, Jeremiah cornered Bruce in the library. It had never been easy for Bruce to ignore Jeremiah insinuating himself between Bruce’s chair and the desk, and this time, Jeremiah proceeded to seat himself on some truly important paperwork.

“Those are the last few Docklands proposals,” Bruce protested, scooting his chair back before Jeremiah could slide off the edge of the desk and into his lap. “I need to finish reviewing and have them on your desk Monday morning, remember?”

Jeremiah folded his arms across his chest, giving Bruce his best you’re-being-a-martyr look.

“You won’t be rejecting the Cobblepots’ bid to build a casino, will you? It’s the most fun by far, considering the design possibilities. I’ve never blueprinted one of those, believe it or not.”

“Judge—I mean, Mayor Bamford seems sorry Oswald’s interim term is up, even though she won the election. Keeping him in office might’ve prevented him from pursuing so many commercial ventures,” Bruce said. “She’s opposed to that conspicuous a gambling establishment on the waterfront. I think she was hoping we’d stick to culture.”

“We’ve got a performing arts center, a planetarium, and more gallery spaces than any one district of this city needs,” Jeremiah said, uncharacteristically expressionless as Bruce took both of his hands in his own. “You’d think a casino might break up the monotony.”

Bruce didn’t force a smile, because Jeremiah wouldn’t find it convincing. He sighed heavily.

“I’ve done something to upset you. In the past week, that could’ve been any of several—”

“An explanation of why you aren’t as stressed as I am about Jerome wouldn’t go amiss,” Jeremiah cut in, tightening his fingers around Bruce’s. “I understood, even early on, that denial is your preferred coping mechanism. It was the only reason I held out hope.”

Bruce had to think about that, because what Jeremiah had said about his tendency toward denial was true. It explained why he hadn’t let himself examine the circumstances too closely. He’d just hoped waiting it out would prove Five’s statement of intent had been little more than an intimidation tactic. Five’s bluff would have been easier to call if not for Jerome’s presence.

“They’re well matched in a way that parallels…well, _us_. The symmetry might have felt twisted if our life together had gone in a different direction.”

“Oh,” Jeremiah said, his expression clouding. “You mean if I hadn’t been hit with the gas.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bruce insisted, squeezing Jeremiah’s fingers in return. “You know how I feel about the way we got to this point. I know how _you_ feel about it. We agreed that the only way out was _through_.”

“Not to derail your productivity, dear heart,” Jeremiah replied, using Bruce’s grasp on his hands for balance as he shifted off the desk, “but I’m going to need more elucidation than that. We also agreed clear communication is key.”

Bruce nodded, tugging Jeremiah forward until he had no choice but to straddle Bruce in his chair. He shouldn’t have avoided closeness in the first place, but his guilt had driven him to it. Neither of them had anywhere to be.

“In a world where nothing had happened to you, where we would’ve collaborated on powering the city without any catastrophe to repair,” Bruce said tracing from Jeremiah’s temple to his jawline, “just think how a revelation like this would’ve affected us.”

Jeremiah hesitated, his stunningly pale eyes tracking over Bruce’s face. “How would it have?”

“We would’ve feared it,” Bruce told him, “because of what an untroubled life we stood to lose.”

“Our life right now is untroubled,” Jeremiah shot back, his lips twitching, “ _but_ —go on.”

“Finding out Five and Jerome had been resurrected and joined forces would have struck us as a terrifying adversary to face,” Bruce went on, “but we’ve _been_ the adversary everyone fears. You experienced a reflexive fear response when the coroner revealed Jerome’s empty casket, and I almost did the other night when Five removed his mask. Still, we remembered what we became, didn’t we?”

“Saccharine,” Jeremiah said with false distaste, skimming his fingers fondly down the opposite side of Bruce’s face. “I’ll stop you before you get to the part where we fell for each other even harder _because_ of what we became.”

“I was infatuated with who you were before,” Bruce insisted, “but I’m in love with who you are now.”

Jeremiah kissed Bruce, pinning him against the back of his chair. “Saccharine _and_ sentimental.”

Bruce wound his fingers in Jeremiah’s hair. He yanked Jeremiah’s head down so that their teeth clashed on the next kiss, almost painful. “So what? I thought those were two of the reasons you stayed.”

“They are, dear heart,” Jeremiah mumbled, scrabbling at the hem of Bruce’s shirt. “And I guess all the rest is true, too. I’m not afraid of Jerome anymore, but I’m annoyed. You can’t take that from me. Sibling thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I didn’t grow up with Five,” Bruce said, letting Jeremiah tug the garment up and over his head. “He still annoys me.”

“He,” Jeremiah echoed thoughtfully, stroking Bruce’s chest. “Speaking of, what do you think’s going on there?”

“With Five?” Bruce asked, swatting Jeremiah’s hands away for better access to Jeremiah’s waistcoat buttons.

“Yes, Five,” said Jeremiah, exasperated, shrugging out of it so Bruce could start on his shirt. “Who else?”

“After looking at the file Fries gave me, I can say Five’s relationship to biological sex is complicated, too,” Bruce admitted, finishing the job. “The way someone dresses isn’t always indicative of gender identity. Neither are pronouns. Admittedly, I’ve been following Jerome’s lead on that.”

“On pronouns?” Jeremiah asked dubiously, his breath catching as Bruce slid his hand down to the front of his trousers. “How…do you mean?”

Bruce shrugged, undoing Jeremiah’s button and zip. “Jerome referred to Five as _he_ , right?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jeremiah said, closing his eyes, shifting his hips into the touch.

“Five gets adamant about that kind of thing,” Bruce said, sliding several fingers through the front of Jeremiah’s boxers. “About who he is.”

“After being trained to imitate you, I don’t—” Jeremiah squirmed impatiently “—blame him.”

“He was like that before the training,” Bruce admitted, rubbing him insistently. “The first time he was here and experimented with imitating me.”

“Can we discuss this later?” Jeremiah asked, cracking one bright eye. “I’d rather concentrate—”

“As if you could right now,” Bruce chided quietly, drawing Jeremiah’s cock into the open.

Jeremiah forced his eyes open, blinking down at Bruce’s hand on him. “That’s, hah. Fair.”

Bruce was at least as hard as Jeremiah, but he was determined not to lose focus. “Is it?”

Quick to discern what Bruce was thinking, Jeremiah tugged at Bruce’s waistband. “No.”

“Then you should say what you mean,” Bruce faltered, stilling his hand on Jeremiah. 

“Are _you_ saying,” Jeremiah began, taking the chance to get Bruce’s bottom layers unfastened, “that I should’ve pinned you down and made you ask me what was wrong sooner? You’re cranky when there’s work to be done.”

Bruce shrugged. He tried to distract Jeremiah with another bruising kiss, but it didn’t keep Jeremiah from getting a hand on him, too. Whatever ideas he might have had about how he’d intended the encounter to go flew right out of his head.

“Another reason I stayed, for all my sins,” Jeremiah warned, winking at him. He shifted out of Bruce’s lap, affording an enjoyable eye-level view before going down on his knees. “You’re too indulgent with me. You always were.”

“Not really,” Bruce gasped, setting one hand at Jeremiah’s nape as Jeremiah started to suck him.

Jeremiah closed his eyes, seeming to smile before swallowing around Bruce. “ _Hmmm_.”

The room was too warm. Bruce felt simultaneously drowsy and tense, so he repeatedly ran his fingers through Jeremiah’s hair to maintain focus. It was never as soft as it should be, but always softer than it looked nonetheless.

Movements languid and less precise by the minute, Jeremiah made a hitched sound that alerted Bruce to why his left hand was no longer plastered against Bruce’s right hip. He was touching himself, albeit with a lack of finesse.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce said shakily, pulling his hair, making him stop. “We can go upstairs if…”

“Why should we?” Jeremiah asked. He was coy, but breathless as he kept stroking himself.

Bruce tipped his head back, groaning as Jeremiah put his mouth back to work. “No reason.”

It didn’t take Jeremiah long to finish them both off, panting as he rested his head in Bruce’s lap.

“I just realized,” Bruce sighed, rubbing the back of Jeremiah’s neck, “it wasn’t you I was really afraid of talking to about this mess. There’s someone who knows part of the story, but needs all of it.”

“I’m not taking point,” Jeremiah murmured against Bruce’s belly. “I’ll lend moral support, though.”

“I don’t expect you to do either one if you don’t want,” Bruce replied. “It’s my story to tell.”

Even though the next morning was Sunday, Bruce left Jeremiah asleep and drove to the office. He called the person he needed to speak with en route, apologizing for the short notice. Meeting with his private investigator on weekends wasn’t difficult.

Valerie Vale was waiting at the main entrance to Wayne Tower when Bruce arrived, smirking.

“Whatever the hell this is about, it had better be good,” she said. “Can’t we go talk in the park?”

Bruce shoved his hands in his pockets as they strolled across the plaza. “Yes, but it’s urgent.”

Valerie gazed a short distance ahead, her restless eyes tracking shadows. “Jerome’s alive, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce admitted. “It’s why the casket was empty. That’s not the only thing.”

“See, now you’re speaking my language,” Valerie laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The last of those photo-sets you left with me, the ones of Jim’s monster hunts,” Bruce began.

Stopping in her tracks, Valerie stared at him. “Did you figure out who he was chasing in those?”

Bruce nodded reluctantly. “How much do you know about what Hugo Strange was doing?”

“Anything he could get away with?” Valerie scoffed. “You mean it wasn’t just some kid?”

“It was some kid,” Bruce said. “At the same time, it wasn’t just _any_ kid. I realized why they looked familiar even from behind.”

Valerie widened her eyes, starting to walk again, indicating Bruce should quicken his pace, too.

“We’re not being followed. Don’t want to hear this while I have too much time to think, though.”

“You might not have heard about the car theft Alfred reported not long after Fish Mooney’s escape with all those Indian Hill test subjects. One of the people she helped saw my face on the _Gazette_ front page and came looking for me.”

“Why?” Valerie asked, genuinely intrigued. “Did they want you to protect them from Jim?”

“That might have been part of it, given they had been chased by him and managed to escape,” Bruce admitted. “That wasn’t the only reason.”

“You said they saw your face in the paper,” Valerie prompted. “It must’ve been one hell of a tilt shift, finding themself out in the real world after living in an underground lab. Did they know who you were?”

“Never before that moment,” Bruce told her. “It’s the resemblance they needed to question.”

Valerie’s expression suggested she didn’t like the implication in the slightest. “ _How_?”

“Strange had access to my parents’ DNA at Pinewood Farms,” Bruce said. “He also had a secret patron. This organization commissioned him.”

“Your parents were expecting you at that point,” Valerie said. “I assume your mother didn’t carry…” She coughed. “Who was the surrogate?”

“What else did you find when you looked into Kathryn Monroe?” Bruce asked rhetorically.

“Christ,” Valerie said under her breath. “Is that what she did to succeed at her power grab? A woman hadn’t led the Court in centuries.”

“You’ve guessed the subject is still alive, then,” Bruce said. “The bad news doesn’t end there.”

Valerie laughed again, although it had a strained quality. “The only thing worse would be…?”

“The reason Jeremiah and I had you follow Victor Fries to Monroe’s property,” Bruce winced.

Too stunned to speak for several seconds, Valerie found her voice. “The bodies he smuggled out of Wayne Industries, the ones you said were cryo clients he took while the city was cut off?”

“Monroe was the client, not the bodies themselves,” Bruce said. “Fries revived them for her using blood, with rejuvenating properties, from another person affected by Strange’s experiments.”

“So Monroe is holed up inside that creepy place with…uh, those two?” Valerie demanded.

“Oh, not anymore,” Bruce replied, leading her over to the nearest bench. “They killed her.”

Valerie sat down. “Triple my fee and explain this zombie flick from the beginning,” she said.


	5. Haunted House

Jeremiah didn’t mind waking alone as much as he might have if Bruce hadn’t left the equivalent of a note. The battered playing card with its black-patterned back and sentimental defacement had, in only a few short years, become a relic. He ran his fingers over the ghost of a lipstick print—the first gift he’d ever given his fearless, austere Jack—and tucked the card in his pajama shirt pocket.

Olga was reading in the kitchen when Jeremiah, robed and bespectacled, finally descended.

“Bruce tells me to wait an hour,” she grunted, leaving her book on the counter, “but it has been hour and a half. Tired, _da_? Too much work.”

“I’m not the one speaking in confidence to a private investigator at the office on a Sunday morning,” Jeremiah yawned, impressed by the speed with which Olga set the French press and a mug at his elbow. “Did I ever tell you about my first real impression of Martín?”

“How he made coffee when you were stranded with the girls?” Olga asked derisively, cracking eggs into the skillet. “Often. Is your favorite story.”

“Time flies when you’re watching them grow, doesn’t it?” Jeremiah mused. “He’s a bright boy.”

Olga shrugged. “Sveta still behaves like child, if you ask me. Martín is old man in comparison.”

“Come on,” Jeremiah teased, pouring the coffee. “Surely you’ve seen _some_ change in him?”

“Can blow up more complicated things than Edward now,” Olga muttered, flipping the eggs.

“Well, see?” Jeremiah said, reaching for the _Gazette_. “You must be extremely proud.”

“Maybe is time for you to get your own,” Olga replied, letting the eggs sizzle while she popped two slices of sticky brioche bread into the toaster.

“Get my…” Jeremiah glanced up from the front page, startled. “What was that, Ms. Agapova?”

“Child,” Olga said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone here always borrowing. Oswald is tired of this.”

Jeremiah stared at the paper again, unable to make sense of the headline. “Do you mean—”

“Foster, adopt,” Olga said, sounding bored as she worked. “Pay surrogate ridiculous fees.”

“Bruce hasn’t mentioned…” Jeremiah couldn’t form thoughts. “We’ve never talked about it.”

“Martín is lonely sometimes,” Olga went on. “He has asked about siblings. His fathers say no.”

“Let’s table this for another day,” Jeremiah said curtly. “Did Bruce tell you what he was doing?”

“No, but you did,” said Olga, prodding the sizzling eggs. “He is talking to that Vale woman.”

Jeremiah took a long swig of coffee, nodding grimly. “I feel that you should be kept in the loop. Do you know where you took Bruce and me a week ago, when we had Fries along for the ride?”

“Haunted house,” Olga sniffed, putting the eggs and toast on a plate. “To negotiate with Owls.”

“We didn’t find the Court as anyone else would recognize it,” Jeremiah sighed. “But as for ghosts…”

Olga turned abruptly, her eyes narrowing to sharp concern as she brought the plate over to him.

“Clown man is alive, then?” she asked, slamming the plate down. “This explains empty casket.”

Jeremiah nodded, grimacing at her. “That’s not even the real issue. Jerome wasn’t alone there.”

Rounding the table, Olga sat down across from him and folded her arms like she meant business.

“Masked assassins? That bitch queen of them all, Kathryn? Should I warn Oswald of danger?”

Jeremiah took a savorless bite of toast. “Kathryn Monroe is dead. Talons, though, yes. Two.”

Olga furrowed her brow, likely reviewing everything she could recall. “Who commands them?”

“Speaking of kids, did you know Kathryn had a son?” Jeremiah replied. “Well—or daughter.”

“So, this upstart heir, does he—does she—” Olga continued gravely “—ask ransom for Jerome?”

Bursting into laughter, Jeremiah broke the eggs’ yolks. “No. Seems they’re sharing the throne.”

Olga muttered an incomprehensible string of Russian under her breath. “Is this to do with file?”

“Is it what?” Jeremiah asked, and then caught up with her. “Ah, the one on Bruce’s desk. Yes.”

“I never knew if rumors of so-called clone were true,” Olga said, whisking the skillet to the sink.

“Wish I could tell you it was that simple,” Jeremiah replied. “In comparison, a clone _would_ be.”

“If not ransom, blackmail?” Olga pressed. “Otherwise, what good is haunted house with Talons?”

Jeremiah took his turn to shrug. “It’s a stronghold like Wayne Manor. History, power, prestige.”

“I do not think so,” Olga scoffed, scrubbing the pan. “Van Dahl Estate is older than both. More elegant, too.”

“I didn’t say they’re right to think like that,” Jeremiah said with resignation. “It is what it is.”

Olga was quiet for a while. The only sounds in the kitchen were the slop of her dishcloth, Jeremiah’s chewing, and the crinkle of newsprint. Olga’s loaded silences nearly always preceded statements of cunning or philosophical bombshells.

“I hesitate to draw conclusions,” Olga ventured at length, “but is likely that you are fucked.”

“If Five summons the Court, that’s a distinct possibility,” Jeremiah agreed. “Jerome will have a field day playing the queen’s consort. Hell, he’s already milking it. You’d think he was born to be a trophy husband.”

Olga raised her voice over the running tap. “You must take council seats if they do this.”

“Bruce is one step ahead of you,” Jeremiah said, shoving the last sliver of toast in his mouth.

“Oswald’s grandfather had place at the table. He stitched feathers to masks with gold thread.”

Jeremiah swallowed. “Milliners and tailors must’ve been of more use to them than Waynes.”

“Not true now,” Olga insisted, briskly drying the skillet. “Wayne fortune is larger than ever.”

“Money would be the rub,” Jeremiah said. “There’s no telling how much of it Kathryn left.”

Olga set the skillet and dish towel aside, brushing off her hands. “They do not want money.”

“Perhaps not, but I doubt they’ll abandon the security it affords,” Jeremiah said. “Jerome’s a fool, but he’s not stupid. Five is cunning and literally can’t feel pain. That’s a dangerous combination.”

Tapping her chin, Olga came back to the table and sat down again. “They will reach out to others before they summon Owls. Allies hidden in the city. You must find where clowns have gone.”

Jeremiah wiped his mouth, perturbed by her insight. “As always, you’re right. The Narrows?”

“Sveta tells me of this club,” Olga explained. “The owner was known sympathizer for years.”

“Anyone who calls followers of my brother sympathizers doesn’t realize the irony. Do you?”

Olga just smirked at him. “Irony because he is the sensitive twin after all? I guessed this.”

Jeremiah glared at her, grateful they were on close enough terms for bluntness and shade.

“You have no idea how mortified I was,” he said, “when I realized how I felt about Bruce.”

“Life is hard when you are no longer heartless,” said Olga. “Sveta is my heart. Martín also.”

“I’m not sure how, but I was Jerome’s heart for the longest time,” Jeremiah said bitterly. “He haunted my dreams for more than a year. Vicious, vengeful—a figment of my imagination. That makes sense, though, given we’ve established _I’m_ the monster.”

“So?” Olga retorted, waving him off. “We are a city of monsters. Even Oswald must accept.”

“Fine,” Jeremiah conceded, narrowing his eyes at her. “This new monster, Jerome’s heart—”

“ _Your_ heart is more monstrous,” Olga said. “Think about it. The thing he did to you.”

“What Bruce did to me back then is forgiven,” Jeremiah said warningly, “but that’s fair.”

“Let us hope they never get into fight. We do not need another lovers’ spat with casualties.”

“Jerome would be the first to go. Mind you, that’s just a guess. I hear Five’s a real fighter.”

“Will you go if there is summons?” Olga asked. “Negotiate seats for Oswald and Edward.”

“If it’s hereditary, Oswald is the next in his line to get the invite anyway,” Jeremiah said. “Didn’t he hate Kathryn? Didn’t she abduct Ed?”

“Didn’t she abduct Bruce?” Olga countered. “Long story, not important. Oswald is legitimate businessman now, husband and son to protect.”

“And getting good with the Court would go a long way to accomplishing that?” Jeremiah asked.

“Oswald knows to make friends of enemies when going gets tough,” Olga said. “Wait and see.”

“Fuck around, find out,” Jeremiah said under his breath, drumming his fingers on the table. “Any other sage advice? I’m starting to think I should ransack the library for references to the Court. Anything I can learn about the organization’s history would be helpful.”

“New management,” Olga said, rising to get back to her chores. “Will not resemble old ways.”

“Five may be a loose cannon,” Jeremiah said, sipping his cold coffee, “but Jerome is predictable. He’d advise Five to stand on ceremony, at least at first, just to have fun with it. Watch the aristocrats squirm.”

“You must go find clowns,” Olga reminded him. “Talk to night club owner, see if she knows.”

“Seems to me I should speak to your niece,” Jeremiah said. “She could get me an introduction.”

“Sveta does not know this woman,” said Olga, her tone turning hard. “Only knows _of_ her.”

“Ways and means,” Jeremiah said, placatingly raising his hands. “I’ll leave her out of it.”

“Go research in library,” Olga said, dangerously close to scolding him. “I must work.”

Feeling contrary, Jeremiah took the remainder of his coffee upstairs. He finished it, showered, dressed, and made his way to the library. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find one of the sofas occupied.

Martín leapt to his feet, almost dropping the book he’d been reading. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Whatever for?” Jeremiah asked, smiling at the teenager, genuinely pleased to see him. “Sit.”

Breaking into a grin, Martín flopped back down. _I’m working on a report_ , he signed.

“Then you should keep at it, never mind me,” Jeremiah replied, taking a seat beside him.

 _It might help me synthesize ideas_ , Martín went on, _if I tell you about it_.

“If it’s literature, you won’t find me much help,” Jeremiah said, tapping the poetry book’s familiar leather cover. “John Donne. I read this way back when I was trying to figure out love.”

“I be—bet Bruce appreciated it,” Martín enunciated carefully. “Was—was it before Harley, Ivy, and me got stu—” He switched back to signing and finished, _Stuck here with you two while the city was still cut off?_

“A few months before,” Jeremiah said. “I was reading it while I waited to see if Bruce would come back to kiss me, or come back to kill me.”

Martín rolled his eyes like Oswald. _He must have kissed you, because you’re still here._

“He did much more, but that’s none of your business,” Jeremiah said. “About that synthesis?”

Chewing his lip, Martín glanced guiltily up from the sonnets. _I don’t have a thesis yet_.

“There’s not just theology in there,” Jeremiah hinted. “You’ll find Donne’s anxieties relatable.”

 _I was thinking I might do a feminist reading_ , Martín signed. _Harley could help_.

“I’m sure she’d like that a lot,” Jeremiah said, his gaze drifting to the mantelpiece. The sudden memory of standing there while Ecco—part of him would _never_ stop thinking of her by that name—shoved his own gun barrel beneath his chin. “She could use a bit of theory over practice.”

Martín was watching Jeremiah intently, something quiet and sad surfacing in his dark eyes.

_This room is full of ghosts. I can tell by the way you look at it sometimes. Maybe like what you were going through when I first met you, with the voices in your head? You reminded me of Ed, remember?_

“Unfortunately, that specter didn’t stay dead,” Jeremiah muttered before he could stop himself.

Sitting forward like he’d been touched by a live wire, Martín set a hand on Jeremiah’s wrist.

“I knew something was wro—wrong when you and Bruce dug up the grave!” he said excitedly. 

“Clown’s out of the coffin, nothing for it,” Jeremiah said wearily. “Yes, Jerome is alive. But almost nobody else knows about it, so promise me—”

“Olga knows,” Martín said. “She knows everything. Dad and Ed, though…they don’t suspect.”

“Promise me you won’t tell them,” Jeremiah pressed, with more intensity than he had intended.

Martín shook his head solemnly, and then pointed to Bruce’s desk. _That file is interesting._

“Not to lay blame, but who told Olga she could leave you in here?” Jeremiah asked, bewildered. “Bruce on his way out the door?”

 _I was supposed to stay in the drawing room with the chessboard_ , Martín signed guiltily.

“Never mind,” Jeremiah sighed, extracting his wrist from Martín’s grasp. “What did you learn?”

“Does Bruce have a twin?” Martín blurted, blanching as the library doors abruptly swung inward.

“Not exactly,” Bruce said, his air distracted, possibly troubled, as he rounded the sofa and sat down next to Jeremiah. He clutched a folded piece of paper in both hands. “More like a half-sibling.”

“I didn’t clear this,” Jeremiah said, uncertain if Bruce was angry. “Martín snuck in to do school work. He and Olga are now _very_ much in the know.”

 _I won’t tell_ , Martín insisted, snapping the book shut. _You know I’m good with secrets._

“I’m not worried about you,” Bruce told him. “I’m not worried about Olga, either. Everyone’s going to find out sooner or later, especially if Jerome and Five are starting to roam around Gotham.”

“Those clothes they asked us to send are proof enough,” Jeremiah said, and then turned his attention on the paper in Bruce’s grasp. “What’s that?”

Bruce handed the paper to Jeremiah, seeming fearfully reluctant. “A possible reason why.”

Jeremiah unfolded the mystery missive, revealing a garishly colored flyer. He stared at it.

“Oh dear,” Martín murmured, the utterance far more Ed-like than it had any right to be.


	6. Tough Job

Olga could only take so many days of Martín hiding in his room and refusing to eat dinner with his parents. Oswald, overly indulgent on account of how busy work had been keeping him, said it was just a phase, that Martín would miss them after about a week. Edward, overly indulgent just as a matter of course, told Olga he’d talk to the boy if it _did_ last over a week. Both of them were guiltily evasive.

“Auntie, relax,” said Sveta, on day three, as she served Olga another free shot in the Iceberg’s VIP lounge. “You know the kiddo’s stressed out about school starting back up in a month. Hell, I’d be stressed if I went someplace as strict as St. Ignatius.”

“Is not school,” Olga said, throwing back the vodka. “He _loves_ school. Tequila next.”

“Yikes,” Sveta said, taking the empty glass out of Olga’s hand. “What d’you think it is, then?”

Olga had the sinking feeling she knew exactly what it was, but couldn’t say a word to anyone.

“Oswald is working late hours, neglecting entire house. Poor Martín has only dog for company.”

“Winnie is really good company, though,” Sveta said, filling the glass with several fingers of her best _reposado_. “Anyway, hasn’t Ed been home?”

“Yes, but is freelancing for Fox again,” Olga sighed. “Tough case. He will not let the boy help.”

“That’s fucking stupid of him,” Sveta said, pouring herself a shot. “The kid’s a kickass sleuth.”

Olga clinked her glass against Sveta’s and swallowed half of it. “ _Na zdorovie_. To family.”

On day four, Oswald attempted to cajole Martín from the opposite side of his bedroom door. He got several minutes of silence for his trouble, followed by Martín’s favorite Spotify playlist abruptly cranked up to the excruciating max.

“Ooh!” Edward said, passing Olga and Oswald in the hall. “Neat! I told him to put this one on here.”

Oswald spun on his heel, just shy of glaring. “You’re lucky it’s the radio edit, Ed. Otherwise—”

Edward cut him off, bending to peck him on the lips. “Of course it is. What do you take me for?”

“A much better father than I’ve been lately,” Oswald said, defeated. “Olga, set the table for two.”

On day five, Olga decided to take matters into her own hands. It was Friday afternoon, which meant she and Martín were in the midst of their weekly chess session. The boy had been teaching her to play, far more patient than Edward would have been.

“You cannot do this any longer,” Olga said as Martín re-set the board. “Your fathers worry.”

Martín set his jaw stubbornly, looking more like Oswald than ever now that he was nearly a teen.

 _You’re a fine one to talk_ , he retorted, dropping the last couple of pawns in order to sign.

“Ah,” Olga said, folding her arms, sitting back in her chair. “So it is what I have been thinking.”

 _I don’t understand how you aren’t losing sleep!_ Martín went on, his eyes suddenly wide with distress. _We know stuff that could get Bruce and Jeremiah in trouble with Dad! Aren’t you concerned?_

“Oh, I am losing sleep,” Olga reassured him. “Any more and I will need whole day to catch up.”

 _Actually_ , Martín admitted hesitantly, biting his lip, _I’m more worried for you than them._

“Why?” Olga asked, watching him retrieve the pawns he’d dropped and put them back in place.

_If Dad finds out that you know and didn’t tell him, he’ll…look, you know how he gets._

“Bruce and Jeremiah will see to it Jerome doesn’t cause trouble,” Olga replied in Russian, in case someone was listening outside the drawing room door. Even after all these years, Oswald hadn’t bothered to learn more than the basics; Edward was better with languages, but Olga spoke too fast for him to keep up. “You mustn’t worry about me. How do you think I survived this long?”

“Was it scary?” Martín asked in a whisper, his fluency Olga’s pride and joy. He spoke it smoother than English. “I mean…back when Jerome was here right after Ed saved me, and Dad helped him get better after the Dentist?”

“Not in the least,” Olga said, enjoying her own retelling. “He was too busy grandstanding to hear me sneak up with a shotgun. I put it right against the back of his ridiculous skull. Do you know what I told him?”

“ _Nyet_?” Martín said hesitantly, and then switched back to signing. _What was it?_

“Say what you want, clown man,” Olga recited, switching back to English, “and get out.”

Martín laughed, but it only took a few seconds for him to turn serious again. _You’re brave._

“I will tell you a secret,” Olga whispered. “Deep down, they are scared, hurt children.”

 _The twins?_ Martín signed. _Bruce, too, I guess. What about…the other one? From the file?_

Olga was silent for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. Five was a tricky variable.

“I think he does not know fear,” she said reluctantly. “Even I must fear pain. He has none.”

 _What do you mean?_ Martín asked. _I thought you meant emotional pain. Everyone has that._

“Remember what so-called Dentist did,” Olga reminded him. “Torture. Most of us fear this.”

Martín grimaced. _Yes. Ed kept eating things he wasn’t supposed to. He broke his stitches._

“The Dentist could do this to Five for hours and hours,” Olga went on. “He would not feel it.”

 _He wouldn’t have any mouth left_ , Martín signed, visibly horrified. _Why is he like that?_

“Hugo Strange,” Olga said, helping Martín put the last few pawns back in order. “His mother.”

 _Strange’s mom helped him with his lab experiments?_ Martín asked quizzically, frowning.

“No, that’s the wrong mother,” Olga sighed in Russian as halting footsteps approached. “Five’s.”

Martín’s eyes just went wider. _I didn’t get to that part of the file on Bruce’s desk, it was too—_

“Like I have said, circus is in town,” Olga said, patting Martín’s hands until he stilled them.

“Oh?” Martín asked cautiously, realizing whose footfalls approached with increasing speed.

“ _Da_ ,” Olga said, adopting her warmest, sweetest, most indulgent tone. “Do you want to go?”

“That would be fun!” Martín said, projecting his best not-stressed façade as the door opened.

“Then I call for tickets,” Olga said, waiting on the frazzled figure that marched toward them.

“Tickets to what, might I ask?” Oswald asked, directing the question warningly to his son.

 _Haly’s Circus_ , Martín replied with chipper defiance, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“You will _not_ call for tickets!” Oswald shouted, finally rounding on Olga. “This family has an image to uphold, do you understand? A _reputation_.”

“Reputation for being drama queens,” Olga said, rolling her eyes. “This is overreaction.”

Edward stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb. It was impossible to say when he’d arrived, or how long he’d been watching, but he could sneak into damned near any situation unnoticed if it suited him.

“What’s an overreaction?” Edward asked, his tone implying Oswald had better calm down.

“Haly and his caravan of malingerers are back,” Oswald said. “Martín wants to go. Discuss.”

Edward looked from Martín to Olga, and then back to Oswald. “I hardly see the problem. It’s just a circus. I can think of several times it’s been back in Gotham since Jerome committed his first act of insanity.”

 _Wasn’t his mother a bad person?_ Martín chimed in. _Worse than anyone here?_

“You need only look at his lone surviving relative to answer that question,” Oswald sneered.

Olga felt her pulse skyrocket, but she kept her hands folded in her lap. “Edward speaks truth.”

 _Jeremiah and Bruce fixed everything they destroyed_ , Martín countered. _They did right by Jerome even though he was—he’s dead._

Olga was relieved to note that Oswald and Edward hadn’t noticed Martín’s nervous slip-up.

“I will go first,” she sighed, drawing their attention away from the boy. “Alone. As preview.”

“How about I go with you?” Edward offered. “Or I could just go with you _and_ Martín—”

“Absolutely not!” Oswald sputtered. “No spouse of mine will be seen in such a—a tent of ill repute!”

“I will go,” Olga insisted, rising from her chair, beckoning for Martín to follow. “Debate is over.”

Edward was quick to fill Martín’s empty seat at the chess table, straightening the pieces that were off-center in their squares. He gestured for Oswald to take the opposite chair, offering a look Oswald couldn’t refuse.

Reluctantly, Oswald hobbled over and took Olga’s spot. “One match before dinner, Ed. _One_.”

“Martín and Winnie must visit with girls,” Olga said, whisking the boy out of the room. Once they were in the hall, she said, “You get dog, I get car.”

“Right,” Martín said, dashing up the grand staircase. “Winnie! Let’s go see your friends!”

Approximately fifteen minutes later, as Olga pulled into the girls’ circular front drive with both the boy and his dog in the passenger seat, Bridgit came outside. She had her flamethrower, ever vigilant.

“Oh, it’s just you weirdos,” she said as Martín let Winnie out of the car. “S’up, Ms. Agapova?”

“Many things,” Olga said, grateful that Leta and Phin had already come running from behind the house. “I must speak with Ivy. She is home now?”

“Yeah,” Bridgit said, relieved to see the boy and three dogs already roughhousing. “Follow me.”

Selina peeled away from the kitchen counter when Bridgit led Olga past, apparently bored with making a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She tagged along, hands clasped behind her back.

“Hey, Olga,” Selina greeted nonchalantly. “How’s balancing those two tough jobs goin’, huh?”

“The Waynes are not tough job,” Olga sniffed. “Still weekends only. Oswald and Edward? Tough job, lasts all week long. Next question.”

“I was being friendly,” Selina griped, catching up as Bridgit and Olga passed through the sunroom and into the greenhouse. “Where’s Martín?”

“In a puppy pile out front,” Bridgit said. “Stop being rude. I guess Olga needs to talk to Ivy.”

“You guess?” said Harley, popping up from behind one of the tables of seedlings. “Why?”

Olga scrutinized Ivy’s girlfriend, finding that the straw hat had done nothing for her dress sense. She stared to the far end of the greenhouse.

“I must connect dots,” Olga said, relieved to realize Ivy had been watching from behind an overgrown trellis the whole time. “Is nothing personal.”

“It never is,” Ivy sighed, striding into plain view with her arms folded. “What’s so important that you pretended Martín had a play date here?”

Olga thought through what Jeremiah had told her about how Victor Fries had revived Five and Jerome for Kathryn Monroe. It sounded farfetched even to her, and Ivy might refuse the request she was about to make.

“These three must leave,” Olga insisted, pointing at Harley, Bridgit, and Selina in sequence.

“Nah,” Ivy said, shaking her head, eyes narrowed. “There are no secrets in this house.”

“Show me this thing you can do,” Olga said, deciding it was best to cut to the chase.

“Outta line,” Harley said, reaching for a shovel. “You can’t just march in here and ask—”

“Babe, it’s okay,” Ivy said, reaching for one of the rose vines overhead. She stuck her finger on one of the thorns, bringing the bloody tip of it right down in front of Olga’s nose. “So, what’ll it be? You got a nasty kitchen burn or what?”

“No,” Olga replied, stooping to fetch a dry leaf. “I would like to see dead thing come to life.”

Ivy shrugged. She used her free hand to pluck the leaf from Olga’s hand, and then set it flat in Olga’s palm. She flicked drops of blood onto it.

Olga watched the leaf shudder, curl in on itself, and unfurl as green as the day it first sprung.

“Neat trick, right?” Selina asked, elbowing Olga to lighten the mood. “Now watch this…”

Olga followed the trajectory of Selina’s nod, refocusing her attention on Ivy’s finger just in time to see the wound neatly close. After several seconds, there was no trace of a break in the skin.

“Right,” Olga said, dropping the leaf back on the ground. “There is something you must know.”

“If it has to do with Vic doing mad sciency shit with that blood sample he took from Ives,” Bridgit said, “Bruce and Jeremiah are looking into it.”

“They did more than this,” Olga said. “Is no longer a secret to them, what Fries has done.”

Ivy licked dried blood off her finger. “They said they’d let me know if they found anything.”

“There are reasons they have not,” Olga replied grimly. “Is wrong that you do not know.”

Harley, who had been thinking so hard her brow was furrowed, exhaled on a bitter laugh.

“Hey, nice one! You’re funny,” she said. “But there’s no way. There’s no fuckin’ way.”

Selina was lost, and she didn’t look happy about it. “There’s no fuckin’ way _what_?”

Bridgit put an arm around her, tugging her toward the sunroom. “C’mon. Better I explain it.”

Once it was just the three of them, Olga stared calmly at Ivy, who had a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t tell me it’s what I think,” she said angrily. “Anything but that, I could forgive, but—”

“Sadly, what you read in paper is wrong,” Olga replied. “Vale has been paid to write lies.”

“Are you sayin’ he’s out there?” Harley blurted, disbelieving. “And J hasn’t flipped his shit?”

“Alive, in very specific place,” Olga cautioned. “I will tell you where. However, he is not alone.”

“Why are you sharing this information?” Ivy demanded. “You should’ve just let Bruce tell us.”

“I share this _because_ ,” Olga said, “you must be damage control if push comes to shove.”


End file.
